It Was Stupid
by Coseepo
Summary: 'It was stupid, going in without back-up. That was like doing something Sh-… something an old friend of his would have done. He knew that. But he was paying the price now.' In which Lestrade is shot. Just a pointless little one-shot. Edited and re-uploaded. Post Reichenbach, gen, T for mentions of suicide and violence.


**This is a reupload of a story from a few months ago because I was tired of people correcting the same typos. I still couldn't find an ending I liked, though. Bleugh. Thanks for reading.**

**Post-Reichenbach.**

* * *

It was stupid, going in without back-up. That was like doing something Sh-… something an old friend of his would have done. He knew that. But he was paying the price now.

He wondered how long it would take the team to find him. He had taken quite a few twist and turns to get here.

And he'd been running for quite a long while.

And he wasn't quite sure if the team had even arrived when he started running.

Crap.

That was something he should remember.

Not a good sign.

Crap.

How long had it been?

_Stupid, stupid, stupid…_

In his defence, he hadn't known the guy was armed. Certainly not with a gun. It had only been a kid, after all. Good thing too, or he'd probably be dead by now. Ah. Not a good thought. Move on.

There was a movement nearby. Lestrade tried to focus his eyes. He was in a small, murky, water-logged alley. He was in a puddle. He was actually in a puddle. If he had been in a better mood, maybe he would have appreciated the way the moonlight reflected off it. But he wasn't in a better mood. He'd been shot in the stomach. It hurt. And he was bloody freezing.

The movement began again. He had completely forgotten about it. Geez.

This time he didn't try to see; he had to conserve energy. There was a moment's pause, and a figure darted out – strategically avoiding the poetic, unappreciated moonlight reflected off the puddle – and scooped Lestrade into its arms.

Lestrade considered struggling. He really did. And yet, he lay placidly in the man's arms. If it was a man. After all, what good would it do? He was injured. He didn't know where he was. It would either be ineffective, injure him further, or leave him in another alley with even less chance of being found. He assumed there was a reason this person had taken him, after all.

It did not occur to him at this point that maybe he was thinking a little irrationally.

Being carried by a running man with a bullet wound in your stomach, as it turns out, is quite painful.

Really painful.

So painful, in fact, that at some point, Lestrade had squeezed his eyes tightly shut, something he only realised when the running figure slapped him stingingly across the face.

"Stay awake," ordered a low voice. Too low to be natural. They were disguising their voice. He struggled to see the face of his captor.

All he could see was a pale, pointed blur, but it was surprisingly informative.

"Sh… Sherlock…? What are you… How…"

"Lestrade?"

Maybe-Sherlock stopped dead still. _Dead, _Lestrade silently emphasised to himself.

"_Lestrade?!" _The call came again, more urgently. He thought it might be Anderson.

Slowly, very slowly, maybe-Sherlock lowered Lestrade to the ground. Then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone.

"Lestrade?"

"Keith," he mumbled, weakly.

He doubted it worked, but even so, Anderson's figure appeared at the end of the alleyway. "Lestrade? Is that you?" He began open, annoyance plain in his voice. "What're you doing on the flo- ?" He reached him, and crouched down to talk easier. "-_Oh God._"

"It's not that bad," murmured Lestrade. His eyelids felt heavy.

"What happened? Wait a second…" He stood up again. "Sally?! Call an ambulance!" He crouched down again, and began peeling off Lestrade's jacket. "Tell me."

"Sherlock…"

Anderson stopped for a fraction of a second, but recovered surprisingly quickly. "I wouldn't put it past him to shoot you," he said, quietly, "but Sherlock's dead. Who did this?"

Lestrade shook his head blearily, trying to shake away the darkness creeping in on the edge of his vision. "No… Sher…"

"Lestrade…? _Greg!_ Stay awake."

_Stay… a… wake…_

* * *

Lestrade woke up to in a hospital bed. He noted idly that it was a private room. He noted, less idly, that John Watson was sitting quietly in the small plastic chair by the bed, hands clasped in his lap.

"John."

"Lestrade," he acknowledged, plainly.

There was a pause. John continued to look at his hands. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Thanks. For being here."

John's lips twisted into a wry smile. "You were for me."

"…Right. Right."

Lestrade wondered if he should mention what happened. It seemed so stupid now. Sherlock was dead. It would just upset John. He had lost a lot of blood. He must have been hallucinating. It made sense, really. He must have –

"Anderson said you were talking about Sherlock."

…Damn.

"Yeah."

Pause.

"It was nothing, really. I mean, I think I was just -"

"Please tell me Lestrade." For the first time, John looked up. "It's important."

"I just… Look, I was probably imagining it, but… I thought… I thought Sherlock was carrying me. Alright? I was lying there, and… I didn't think that they were gonna find me, and then Sherlock was there carrying me. But he disappeared as soon as I heard Anderson, so…"

He trailed off. John was looking at his hands again, shaking a little.

_I shouldn't have told him._

He could have avoided the question. Could have said that Anderson was lying. John would have believed that.

_He was John's best friend. Bringing him up was just insensitive._

"The incident…"

The voice was so quiet that Lestrade wasn't even certain John had actually spoken. He looked at him expectantly.

John cleared his throat. "The incident, a couple of months ago…"

"When I sat in that chair?" Lestrade cut in quickly, his stomach twisting uncomfortably at the memory. John didn't seem to have heard him.

"… when I… When I tried to kill myself."

Pause.

John mumbled something, too quiet for Lestrade to hear at all.

"I'm sorry?"

The army doctor sighed, shakingly. "I didn't. Make. The call." He bit out each word.

Lestrade stared at him. "But you said -"

"No." John cut him off. "_They _said. And I agreed. Because they said the drugs altered my perception."

"Then who -" But Lestrade knew the answer. He knew before John choked at the name in a broken sob, shaking more than ever. He knew even as he asked.

"Sh-Sherlock."

There was a long pause after that, filled with the sound of John's ragged breathing as he slowly calmed down. Long minutes past.

It was Lestrade who broke the silence.

"So… what does this mean?"

John's wry smile was back. "Either we're both insane…" He looked Lestrade deep in the eyes. "Or Sherlock's out there somewhere. Alive."

* * *

**I'd really appreciate some reviews :3 Feel free to correct any new typos and I'll edit them out again. Thanks again for reading.**


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